


Midnight

by lil_slug



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insecurity, hints of depression, implied/referenced eating disorder, it's weird - Freeform, no real plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_slug/pseuds/lil_slug
Summary: On a rainy summer night, six people have trouble sleeping.





	Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, this is totally weird. Like, 4k words of character study weird. I don't even know if I'm doing it right, tbh. I'm just desperately looking for ways to get the creative juices flowing again, because, as you may have noticed, I got some fics to continue and I haven't posted a single word in over a month.  
> This kinda disregards the fact that there's gonna be a third season, but Scoops Ahoy still exists. Whatever.

Midnight. Eleven sighs into the silence of her small bedroom. Not for the first time this summer. Not for the last time. Some nights she can blame it on the heat; She‘s just not used to it. But with the heat gone, replaced with only mild humidity from the trickling rain that finally revitalizes the cracked open ground, she has to admit to herself, it never was because of the heat.

 

She watches the streaks of water racing down the one-layered window with nothing but trees, looming tall on the other side.

 

_And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard  
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall_

 

Eleven likes that song. And it fits. Not literally, because tonight‘s rain, as well as the rains of the past two weeks, is far from hard. Just warm summer droplets. But she knows there always is a thunderstorm ahead, somewhere on the horizon. Having read books, studied the concept of metaphors intently, this has become more and more apparent to her. High School. That is going to be a hard rain.

 

Eleven is a weird girl. Every fiber of her being basically screams ‚not normal!‘. Not just the way she dresses (the way she _likes_ to dress), with mismatched colors, a new hairdo every single day, it also resides on the inside. A girl reading dictionaries as if they were novels, the music she enjoys being a mishmash of Hopper‘s war-story tinged records, the underground vibe Will‘s mixtapes emit, and Nancy‘s sing-along tunes.

 

People are going to notice. All eyes on her. And as much as she loves Mike, as much as she trusts him, _as much as they are alike_ , he doesn‘t quite get it. Maybe because Eleven doesn‘t know the words to make him understand. Every time he tells her how special she is, it stings as much as it makes her insides flare with love and affection. What if she doesn‘t _want_ to be special?

 

Just three more weeks. Twenty-one days until she will have to face them. All eyes on Jane. El. Eleven. The new kid. The weird kid. The Chief‘s odd daughter. Whatever.

 

It doesn‘t matter, right? It‘s just the reason why her eyes won‘t close even when those little red numbers, made up of up to seven straight, glowing lines, show 12:00. The reason why, even with the hottest part of this summer gone, the heat remains in her stomach, pooling up to a point where she wants nothing more but jump up and down on her bed until she passes out. And then she‘d find herself grounded.

 

El can‘t suppress her frustrated groan. Gritting her teeth, she kicks off the thin bed sheet she uses to cover herself in the summer. Just some fresh air. A few drops of rain on her skin to put out the fire on the inside.

 

But she doesn‘t get that far. Right in front of her bedroom door, on the threadbare sofa that honestly has seen better days, she finds him. Hopper has his head tilted back, hands running down his face time and time again. The door creaks before she can close it again in an attempt not to bother him with her petty little problems. A startled grunt later, he is looking at her. The cabin smells like coffee. Odd.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Midnight. That‘s what his digital watch says, anyways. He has always felt kinda lame about it. Copycat. Because Mike had gotten one of the things more than a year earlier. But then again, Dustin had _wanted_ a Casio calculator watch for at least half a year longer than Mike had. It was cool when he got it. Now it‘s normal to have it around his wrist. So much for that.

 

Dustin‘s frown remains plastered to his face when he pulls his sleeve back down, jams his hands in his pockets, and goes on with his aimless hike. The rain doesn‘t bother him. It‘s nothing like the rains this town sees in the fall between September and November. Quite the opposite, it has a soothing effect on him. Not enough to get him soaking wet, but more than sufficient to cool him down. Body and mind. Racing thoughts.

 

Hawkins is a nice place at night during the summer. After two consecutive years of being threatened by literal monsters out here, Dustin still feels safe wandering the streets at night. Lined by middle-class homes, they stretch out like calm, dark rivers, easily remembered by someone who has spent countless hours biking up and down every inch of them until the veins of his body have inherited their shape. Someone much older with less of an appetite for adventure might call this place beautiful with its lack of right angles and all the curves, inclines and declines.

 

But after everything that has happened, Dustin himself has had enough adventure for a lifetime. Mainly because he was so useless in this whole ordeal. They could have done without him.

 

The thought crosses his mind right when he stumbles over a cracked open concrete slab of the sidewalk. A suppressed groan of „Shit!“ escapes him, and before Dustin knows it, he has hit the ground. He scrambles back to his feet almost immediately. His palms are bleeding now. Which is annoying. He holds out his hands in the rain, but it‘s not quite enough to wash away the black-and-gray grime the sidewalk has left behind.

 

Yeah, that‘s like Dustin. Falling over just like that. Failing at the most simple tasks, always relying on others to save the day. What is a Bard good for anyways, except boasting with his vast knowledge of pointless facts? It has always been the others‘ responsibility to save the day. And to drag him along in the process. If anything, he caused more problems than anyone else. No, he‘s never going to adopt a slug again.

 

Dustin heaves a sigh of discontentment. It‘s midnight in Hawkins. And just because he couldn‘t stand the confinements of his bedroom, clumsy, ex-toothless Henderson is bleeding. It‘s only when he notices where _exactly_ his inept feet have carried him that he brings a hand up to muffle his burst of disbelieving laughter.

 

There is only one car in the driveway. As always. Because there really is no one he could disturb, Dustin walks up to the front door and presses the little chrome button that produces a pleasant _ring_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He really hates the mirror sometimes. That full-length piece of glass with a thin layer of aluminum or silver behind it. It just shows Will what exactly is wrong with him. Standing in front of the cursed thing, his gaze falls on the alarm clock. Disregard the numbers and it‘s perfectly symmetrical at midnight and noon with both hands pointing up. The symmetry is broken soon though, because midnight usually only lasts for one minute. And Will feels himself forced to look at his own reflection again. Maybe it‘s always midnight in the Upside-Down?

 

He‘s a mess, and he knows it. Growing inch after inch doesn‘t do you any good if you can‘t put on weight. Worse if you find yourself losing some weight every now and then due to lack of appetite. Worst if your mother notices too and watches you with eagle eyes until you‘ve finished dinner _and_ seconds. Until you‘ve forced yourself to do so.

 

Someone tall and strong, like Jonathan, could probably pick Will up with one hand. Throw him around like a stuffed animal. His bare legs look like those of a stork, like Bambi‘s legs, about ready to give in at any step in the wrong direction. They stick out of his shorts like twigs. Breaths labored, Will steps closer and eventually all but falls against the mirror, forehead meeting the cool glass. It‘s not even hot. Rain has started quietly trickling from the inky sky about two hours ago. Will‘s ridiculous bowl cut is damp with sweat, though.

 

The bedside lamp provides just enough light for him to recognize the dark rings adorning his too deep eyes. Cheeks hollow and pale despite the summer sun, he thinks he now is Zombie Boy more than ever. Zombie Boy in middle school, Zombie Boy in high school, Zombie Boy in college, Zombie Boy at work... Zombie Boy forever.

 

Every breath of air he takes only seems to make it worse, feeding the heat. After what happened last year, he should love heat. Shouldn‘t he? Well, inexplicable frustration manifesting as oozing lava in his chest might just be a different story. Dammit, what is wrong with him? Life is going well. During the days, he can forget. Everyone else can forget, which is even more important because it means the bullies are finally letting off a bit. Last week the party came across Troy at the community pool and he didn‘t even bat an eye.

 

So why is he just shy of serious underweight? Why can‘t he sleep, why do others notice him constantly smelling of coffee, why does his exhausted body crawl in and out of bed without ever being able to find rest? All he can do is try to keep in his cries of frustration by jamming his hand in between his teeth and biting down. Biting until it hurts enough for him to think he should taste copper soon.

 

Then, Will flees. His first stop is his mom‘s bedroom. Hand raised, prepared to knock, he realizes he shouldn‘t. Whatever is wrong with him, it‘s all in his head. All in his head, god dammit. And that‘s just not enough to bother her with. Not when she will stock up shelves from six to three the next day.

 

Something similar goes on in his mind when he reaches his brother‘s door. Just like their mom, Jonathan wouldn‘t mind being woken up, no matter how pathetically needy the fourteen year old on his doorstep might seem. Only Will would mind.

 

He trots back to his room then. All he leaves behind is a short note on his pillow. ‚ _Don‘t worry. Castle Byers.‘_

 

He doesn‘t bother with sweatpants, socks or shoes. Will walks the small distance across the now damp forest ground barefoot. He bitterly regrets that decision when he finds himself a mere two feet away from the safety of his wooden fort and the sound of cracking wood pierces the silence from somewhere behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It‘s not alcoholism. Jim has proved that to himself, following Doctor Cooper‘s advice. He likes Cooper. Really does. None of that new age bullshit with his physician of choice. What‘s the first thing that happens whenever he steps into the old man‘s office for his quarterly that the force requires him to take? He is offered a smoke. Which is why he is confident Cooper would never declare him unfit for police service.

 

Then, in spring, Jim decided to confess to his drinking habits. They had already improved by then, meaning he had gotten rid of booze altogether, but the beer remained. Daily. Cooper had just taken a deep drag from his own cigarette, chuckling. „Don‘t drink for a week. If you make it, crack open a cold one and celebrate.“

 

Jim had made it. End of the story. A beer or two after work seems to be okay for him. Tonight is one of these nights that are just... different. He shouldn‘t drink tonight, and doesn‘t. Beer goes with relaxation. Coffee goes with contemplation. So he has coffee instead. Coffee at midnight. It‘s black, and strong, and really just keeps him from falling into a sleep he knows would be troubled by nightmares. Anniversary effect? That shit is real.

 

He narrows his eyes at the bedroom door separating him from his adopted daughter. He dreads next week, that much is sure, but he has never missed a year and Jim will be damned if he starts now. Because he‘s finally getting better and Diane just deserves not having to worry about him for a change. Joyce, bless her, was kind enough to agree immediately when he asked if he could drop El off for a few days.

 

After that, it‘ll be off to New York for him. Off to that graveyard. The things you do; Look at a stone that could never do a little girl justice. Lay down flowers that can‘t either. And then? Tell Diane a half-fabricated story about an abducted, orphaned child whom he just couldn‘t send off to a home after she had already found friends.

 

Diane will then congratulate him on his second chance. She‘ll mean it. Her eyes will show the relief and pride she will be feeling. Like every year, they will renew the promise he has broken too many times before. _‚Never think you have failed as a parent.‘_ they‘ll tell each other. And Jim will think _‚Better pray I don‘t fail again.‘_

 

As if he could have seen it coming. Cancer just sneaks up on you, that damn bastard. But that‘s not his point. During the last weeks he spent up to twelve hours a day at the hospital. From the patrol car right into that sterile room and back. Couldn‘t he have made that fourteen? Sixteen? Was it enough? _Will anything he does ever be enough?_

 

Attempting to breathe out these thoughts that seem to choke him like the stench of Agent Orange once did, he lets his head fall back. His eyes are itching at the corners. Shit. Drops of water have been thrumming against the window for hours. Jim doesn‘t need any of that on his face. His palms rub down from them across his cheeks. Once. Twice. A creaking sound next to him.

 

It takes him a second, but Jim manages a smile. An honest one even.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two years ago he just smoked occasionally. And only to appear cool in front of others. _‚Fucking jock‘_ is what he thinks whenever he looks at photos from that time. Odd enough, because Steve doesn‘t really look any different at eighteen than he did at sixteen. His hair is longer now. Long enough to look mighty weird whenever he runs out of hairspray. Other than that? He still dresses up in the fashion of his time that he secretly despises. He still appears too stupid to be allowed to walk free whenever he smiles. Stupid enough to really pick up smoking. Stupid enough so that his parents don‘t want anything to do with him.

 

Steve usually is the only person sitting at this generously sized kitchen table. Dinnertime, midnight, sun, snow, a gentle summer rain, it doesn‘t matter. He is alone now, too, and the overhead lamp is dimmed just enough for him to read the numbers of this month‘s check. One of these arrives in the mail on the first of every month, unless it‘s a Sunday. And it‘s always enough for food and gas. Basically all he needs. He doesn‘t have to bother with the power bill. They probably draw that right from his parents‘ bank account.

 

Steve lets go of the paper and puts out the cigarette bud, yawning. He‘ll cash that in the morning right before his shift at Scoops Ahoy. People would probably think a job is just a pastime for him if they knew about the checks, but things are going to go downhill from here money-wise. His parents will learn eventually that he‘s not going to college. That he‘s not going to work for his father. His first day at Indiana Law Enforcement Academy will also mean the end of his carefree life.

 

Walking up to the glass back door switching off the light, he squints his eyes at the pool, glowing blue with underwater lights in the dark of this warm summer night. Raindrops cause small waves to ripple all across the surface. Steve lights another coffin nail. He likes the way the orange glow reflects in the glass, being the only source of light in the entire empty house.

 

Meanwhile, the acceptance letter from ILEA remains next to the check on the kitchen table. It has been lying there for a solid two weeks, and every other night or so, Steve finds himself wanting to tear it to shreds. He can almost feel his father‘s approving glance at finding the remains of this damn thing next to Harvard application papers, or whatever.

 

The thought of his father‘s face always is enough to shift Steve‘s mood, though. Police uniforms are way more fashionable than Italian suits anyways. At least they have a meaning and a purpose. Wouldn‘t that be nice, having a purpose?

 

It doesn‘t take him long to finish this fifth cigarette of the night. A midnight swim could be nice. _‚But it‘s raining‘_ , Steve can hear his mother complaining. He chuckles to himself. She‘s right. _Better not get wet on your way to the pool, Harrington._

 

The second he slides open the door, his plans change. Who in the world would be ringing the doorbell at this time of the night? Oh well, it‘s probably time for the world to end once again. Where is that fucking bat?

 

 

* * *

 

 

His messy hair is already sticking to his temples when he decides to take on the walk home. Jonathan doesn‘t bid farewell to the black surface that can‘t find any stars to reflect tonight. It must be close to midnight. But his watch wouldn‘t have done him any good out here by the quarry with no place else to be before sunrise, so he‘d left it at home. Just as his camera. Night time photography produces grainy images. Images for creeps who sneak up on homes and watch their crush undress.

 

Tonight, Jonathan just wanted to think. Besides work, thinking has been bis number one preoccupation this summer. Honestly, it‘s all been a chore. He‘s going to have to pay his way through New York, of course, and that would be alright with him if it didn‘t mean working for eight or more hours six days a week and then come home to find his mother half-asleep from exhaustion and his brother emaciated.

 

That‘s the core of everything. Two years in a row, shit hit the fan. And since then, shit has been... well, slowly trickling into the fan, which really isn‘t any better. Soon, Jonathan is going to leave all this behind. He won‘t be here, he won‘t be nowhere near should things _really_ go south again. It‘s already bad enough as it is, with either Jonathan or their mom having to keep a close eye on Will during breakfast and dinner.

 

His thoughts are an endless circle. Mom and Will need him. Mom and Will don‘t need him. Mom and Will need him. Mom and Will don‘t need him.

 

_Oh, a monster from another dimension is threatening to kill you? Here, let me just drive off to score a home run with Nancy Wheeler in some paranoid guy‘s bunker. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jonathan Byers! Leaving it up to a bunch of thirteen year olds to save his brother since 1984! Mr. Byers, was the sex worth it at least?_

 

Why does he even come down to the quarry? Weeks ago he thought it might be a nice place to be alone and think. It‘s better than his bedroom, being less stuffy and claustrophobic, but that‘s about all he has ever taken from these nightly endeavors. Not a single progression with these hammering thoughts. How long until his eyes pop out?

 

The woods between the quarry and his home are calm and easy to navigate. He is quiet, almost making a game out of avoiding any twigs or gravely patches that could make a sound when stepped on. The trees are far apart in places and don‘t do a good job at shielding him against the warm rain, so the faint splashing covers up whatever little noises he can‘t avoid.

 

He is close to home when Jonathan stops dead in his tracks. His first thought is, he must have stumbled across a ghost. There is an ethereal glow to the person sneaking through the forest, where there isn‘t any moonlight to speak of. His second thought is way more grueling to him. Something is wrong with Will. He is sleepwalking. Or worse, possessed again. Why else would he be stumbling away from home in the middle of the night with nothing on but a plain white shirt and his underwear.

 

Contrary to popular belief, waking up a sleepwalker won‘t cause them any long-term harm. Jonathan still wants to get closer before he does so, in case Will might panic. Too late he realizes his brother probably is very much awake and just headed for Castle Byers. A moment of clumsy carelessness later, a twig cracks loudly underneath his shoe. Will spins around.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He‘s a teddy bear. Just a lot bigger, a little scratchy maybe, but Eleven tells him anyway. She isn‘t good at reading people‘s emotions, finding out their needs. But maybe she is right this time. Maybe she‘s learning. Because his embrace tightens when he chuckles. 

 

She was in a bad place when she joined him on the sofa. As much of a dumb old man he is, Jim prides himself with noticing these things quicker than most people. On the other hand, he still _is_ a dumb old man and so he realizes something else way later than he could have; Tonight, it‘s enough. A teddy bear, huh? Whatever he has to be, he can be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The world doesn‘t end tonight. And it probably won‘t ever again. Steve really thinks he should get rid of his bat already. Getting caught with that damn thing in the trunk by anyone else than Chief Hopper could get him into trouble. He shrugs the thought off like an ill-fitting vest, before plopping the VHS of _Stripes_ into the VCR. That very moment, the microwave over in the kitchen makes a faint _beep!._ As Steve trots over to collect their bag of popcorn, his gaze falls on the acceptance letter once again. He might just frame it.

 

Dustin inspects his bandaged hands. Steve has overdone it. More than that. He has made it look like they have just been saved from a meat-grinder and repaired in a five-hour surgery. His joke about the older teen having to feed him popcorn earns him a fond smile, paired with a nudge to the shoulder. A smile from Steve has become increasingly rare over the course of this summer. Is this success? Has Dustin just done something good? He at least likes to imagine he can tear Steve away from some of the thoughts he keeps hidden so well. Whatever they might be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They built this safest of places together years ago. Their mom calls it Will‘s castle from time to time, but it really is _theirs_. A place to go to whenever they need one, Like right now. Things might be only half as bad as Will sometimes believes. The world is still turning. Will‘s time will come eventually. No more nightmares, no more coffee or making his meals disappear... Things get bad from time to time for everyone. His brother is living proof that there‘s a way out. It really means comfort to Will, even if it also means he‘s going to miss Jonathan. His stomach growls.

 

They don‘t fit too well into this ramshackle shelter anymore. Jonathan never had a problem being close to Will though, and there‘s no place he‘d rather be right now. Will has this rare power to jam a branch into the spokes of Jonathan‘s rotating mind when it threatens to spin out of control. Maybe Jonathan has made mistakes in the past. He can spend nights regretting until he can‘t get out of bed in the morning anymore. Or he can use his time to make up for them. Midnight. The perfect time to sneak back inside and make grilled cheese.

 

 

* * *

 

 

About an hour after midnight, three people in Hawkins, Indiana ask an honest question. „Do you wanna talk about it?“

 

They all get the same answer. „No. Do you?“

 

Three people shake their heads, smiling.

 

And six people find some peace, for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, well, do with it whatever you like. Leave a comment... print it out and wipe your ass with it...  
> I'm just really tired and lost in thoughts. This is my vent.  
> Fun fact; This is the first fic I've ever posted for which the file name on my hard drive is the same as the work title on AO3.


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